


The Best Disguises

by pocketbookangel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Books, Case Fic, Gen, book-related crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:18:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3107588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/pseuds/pocketbookangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock" and John solve a book-related crime at a <strike>manor house</strike> healing centre in the country. Irene helps, more or less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Disguises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CherryBlossomTide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBlossomTide/gifts).



“They don’t want Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock struggled to understand how that could happen. The case was promising, but the misguided victims wanted the police, not the world’s best consulting detective.

Lestrade had stopped by Sherlock and John’s flat with thank you pizza when he’d received the call. One of his superiors, possibly acting on an obscure grudge, had passed his number over to some rich people with a problem. Lydia Durrell, who had recently lost her husband had called Scotland Yard because she had discovered something odd when she was taking care of his bequests. Some valuable first editions that her late husband had left to his niece Sadie had been replaced by similar books. Lestrade had asked if she meant replaced by a different title or edition, but she said no. Same title, same edition, different book.

John had been happy with the pizza, but Sherlock wanted the case.

“That was a man’s voice, a shouty man,” Sherlock said.

“That was Mrs Durrell’s brother-in-law. She gave the phone to him when I said there was nothing we could do. Don’t look at me like that, Sherlock. I told him that he should talk to you, but he didn’t want to. He said it had to be Scotland Yard, or no one.”

“There was something else. I can tell when you’re being evasive, Lestrade.”

Lestrade sighed. Gavin Durrell had said something else, but Sherlock could be oddly sensitive when it came to criticism. “He said that no one uses forums anymore and that if you wanted to make the Science of Deduction into an app, you should give him a call.”

“I think Mrs Hudson and your mum are the only ones using the forums, and they were mostly talking about cake, not cases,” John said. The puzzle-solving aspects of Sherlock’s site had tapered off a bit, but the food discussion was going strong and John had convinced Mrs Hudson to make some of the recipes that had been discussed.

“You have an interesting case, and not only are you not investigating it yourself, you’re telling me I can’t have it. I suppose you also enjoy waving sweets in front of babies and snatching them away again.”

“I wasn’t bringing you a case.”

“Oh, well. I suppose I can’t solve all the cases.” Sherlock suddenly became relaxed and agreeable. He patted Lestrade’s shoulder reassuringly. “Would you like some tea?” He turned to beam a friendly smile before disappearing into the kitchen.

“He’s going to drug us, isn’t he?” Lestrade whispered.

“Probably. I’d put money on it.”

“As much as I’d like to spend the weekend unconscious on your sofa, I’m off. Tell Sherlock… tell Sherlock whatever you want.” Lestrade abandoned John to handle Sherlock’s sudden cheery mood.

“Where’d he go?” Sherlock reappeared, mugs of tea in hand.

“In search of something stronger than tea.”

“Oh.” Sherlock set down one of the mugs and started to drink from the other. “He always acts like I’m going to poison him. I told him what happened that time was an accident and he should know he’s far more useful to me alive than dead.”

“Are you going to bully him into taking the case so you can investigate it?”

“I don’t need to.” Sherlock pulled out the warrant card he’d lifted while patting Lestrade’s shoulder reassuringly.

“What does the public think of when they think Sherlock Holmes? Stunning intellect, yes, but also a stylish coat and a hat. Replace those with a dull, grey trench and pair of ugly shoes, you have a Lestrade.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m sorry, John, but you’ll have to stay home for this one. Introducing you as Sally might raise some awkward questions.”

John knew he shouldn’t have been astonished that Sherlock apparently had a ‘Lestrade’ costume ready, but he was. “To make it convincing, you should cut your hair.”

“Don’t be absurd. A good disguise is mostly about attitude.” Sherlock tossed his curls defiantly, and then realising it wasn’t a very Lestrade-like gesture, he smoothed them flat against his head.

\--

Before the 1990s, Lower Morrington had lacked any charm, but an influx of City money had stirred the locals to import charm from more popular hamlets, so tea shops selling artisanal scones had flourished like picturesque weeds next to boutiques filled with the handmade and bespoke. Unfortunately, most of the new residents preferred to do their shopping in London and the artisanal scones had crumbled away uneaten. Even if Sherlock had arrived earlier in the day, the high street would not have been any livelier.

Sherlock had intended to arrive earlier, but he’d had trouble hiring a car. The agent had been confused when asked for “something a middle-aged man of average intelligence, recently divorced and a little too fond of drink, might drive”. She’d thought Sherlock was admitting to a drink problem, which made her reluctant to hand over the keys. His problems hadn’t ended there—a few idle snowflakes had teased London’s drivers and reduced speeds from slow to glacial.

  
Lydia Durrell’s imaginatively named Manor House was close to the village. The snow was becoming heavier, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from speeding up as the house came into sight, his usual reaction when an interesting case was near.

  
The house, much like the village, had not originally been charming, but had its charm applied at a later date. The house’s owner did not need artifice to be appealing. She had kind eyes, and if her hair had gone a bit more gold after her loss, no one would fault her. Lydia was apologetic when she opened the door and saw Sherlock, all police shoes and police coat. “I’m sorry, Inspector. Sherlock Holmes came down from London and after talking with him, I think this whole matter can be settled without the police.”

  
For a brief moment, Sherlock was pleased that she had seen through his disguise, Genius such as his could not be hidden.

  
“He’s in the library right now, detecting,” she said.

  
“Who is in the library?” Sherlock tried to look past her into the darkness of the hall. A familiar figure, one who should have been in London, was coming out of one the doors. John.

  
“What are you doing here?”

  
“That’s John Watson,” Lydia said helpfully. “Surely you know him. He follows Sherlock around on all of his cases.”

  
“I think you meant to say that I occasionally assist with cases. I’m not a professional sidekick.”

  
“Of course not,” she said.

  
“No, you’re not,” Sherlock said.

  
“I am sorry you came all this way.”

  
“Not at all,” Sherlock said. “I noticed a decrepit pub down the road, and I shall be waiting there should _Sherlock Holmes_ fail. Dr Watson, a word.” John stepped outside.

  
“You’ll never get away with this,” Sherlock said. He tried to follow his words with a dramatic exit, but his Lestrade coat had too much material to gracefully swirl behind him as he turned. Once back in the car, he sent an angry text to Lestrade, the first of many.

  
\--

  
“I sent him a picture of myself wearing his coat and the hat,” Lestrade told John. "Now he's doing his best to set a record for texts per minute." Lestrade held up his phone, which was emitting angry little buzzes and disgruntled flashes. "Most of them concern where he thinks we should go and the others are anatomically improbable." Lestrade had taken off the coat, but the deerstalker remained firmly on his head.

  
John's phone began to buzz. "He must have remembered he can do group texts," he said.

  
"Unfortunately, he hasn't said anything about the case. Why did he want to come down here? Surely it wasn't only to annoy me. He doesn't need to leave London for that."

  
The library was one of the smaller rooms on the first floor, window seats facing north and west, shelves of mahogany and oversized leather chairs, but not many books. A row of dusty paperbacks were lined up next to the window seat and a set of photography books were displayed with their covers facing out. It was the kind of room where a man could drink port, wear velvet slippers, and grow a moustache.

  
The first editions, the reason their client had wanted Scotland Yard, were locked in a glass case next to the desk.

  
"That is barely even a lock," Lestrade said. "Tug on it a bit, and it'll do what you want."

  
"Is that the police version of dirty talk?" John grinned at Lestrade.

  
"It could be." Lestrade examined the glass. "This is pretty clean, compared to those shelves over there, it's sparkling."

  
"She said they have a housekeeper during the week, but you don't mean that kind of clean, do you?"

  
"I mean the no fingerprints kind of clean," Lestrade said.

  
"Who would replace one set of first editions with another set? That's expensive and pointless," John said. He looked at his list. " _The Wind in the Willows_ , _The Story of the Treasure Seekers_ , _Aesop's Fables_ , well, that's not exactly a first edition. A first edition of that would be a scroll."

  
"I think it's time for me to take off the deerstalker and have Lydia make a real report. It doesn't seem like a crime, replacing one book with another, but if there's something behind it."

  
"Sherlock thought there was."

  
"He tends to be right about things, doesn't he? Before I go off to think up something believable for the local plod, I think we should talk to everyone in the house. Who's here besides Lydia?"

  
"Her brother-in-law Gavin, his daughter Sadie, and Lydia's friend, the woman who is helping here with the healing centre, Irene Norton. She's a 'motivational speaker' and 'lifestyle consultant' from America. Maybe she had something to do with it; after Irene Adler, I find all Irenes untrustworthy. Maybe these first editions are fake and someone is selling the real ones."

  
Lestrade opened the glass case and took out _Aesop's Fables_. The animals inside had been transformed into proper Edwardians; it was interesting how it didn't take much to make an elephant look like a vicar with Doubts.

  
"How much do you think this is worth?" Lestrade asked. "Three thousand pounds? It shouldn't be hard to find the shop that sold it, but it will take a warrant. Maybe we can sort this out without all that. Let's talk to Irene and the brother-in-law."

  
The bedrooms were on the second floor. Lestrade knocked a few times, then cautiously opened the door to Irene's room. There was no one inside, but they could hear the sound of water running in the room next to them.

  
"The bathroom," John said. "Maybe we should--"

  
"Come in," a sultry voice called out. Alluring and all too familiar.

  
"No," John said. "No, no, no. It can't be." He marched over and flung open the bathroom door. Clouds of steam parted to reveal Irene Adler revelling in a luxurious bubble-filled bathtub, elegant legs stretched out, eyes closed as if she had been overwhelmed by aquatic bliss. She exhaled, sending the bubbles around her dancing.

  
"Sherlock," she purred. She opened her eyes. "You're not Sherlock. And you're not Sherlock, though you've got his hat. Where is he?" She sat up, her elegant legs disappeared under the water and bubbles flowed over the sides.

  
"That's Irene Adler. What is she doing here?" John asked. He appeared to be addressing his question to the tiles above Irene's head.

  
"When Lydia told me Sherlock Holmes was here, I knew he'd be up to ask me some questions, so I decided to greet him properly. Sherlock is so much fun."

  
"And I'm not?"

  
"I can feel Sherlock willing himself not to feel anything. You've seen loads of naked people, so it's less exciting for you. And Inspector Lestrade would like to put me in handcuffs. Not the sexy ones, sadly, otherwise waiting in that ridiculous pose might be worth it."

  
"Thanks," Lestrade said. He could recognise a compliment when he heard one. He held out a towel and Irene emerged from the tub. As it was only John and Lestrade, she didn't bother with the extra grace and languor she'd practiced.

  
"You still haven't told me where Sherlock is." Irene said.

  
"He's Sherlock. For today at least," John said. "Sherlock stole his warrant card and his coat--"

  
"I thought the cleaners had lost it. I should've known."

  
"So we took his coat and his hat and came down here. It didn't sound like a real case. What Lydia said sounded like delusional thinking, like when people think the people around them have been replaced by identical strangers, like a book version of that. We were going to wait until Sherlock arrived, laugh at his reaction, and then I was going to tell Lydia that in my opinion, as a doctor, I thought she was in need of a psychiatrist, not a detective. I wasn't going to say it exactly like that, of course."

  
"Of course. Tact and discretion. I didn't know what to think, which is why I suggested that Lydia call Sherlock. Gavin was the one who insisted on real police. He naturally thinks whatever he's doing is the most important ever--he didn't see that real police have better things to do than chase after a couple of books. It seems I was wrong..."

  
"This is my day off," Lestrade said. His "to-do" list had been crowded, but the prospect of breathing in fresh country air and annoying Sherlock had been irresistible.

  
John stared fixedly out the window while Irene dressed. "Are you really helping Lydia turn this place into a healing centre? Do you really give motivational speeches?” he asked.

  
“In my own way. I’ve always been good at getting people to do things.”

  
“Why Irene _Norton_?” Lestrade asked.

  
“I was trying something.”

  
“Did it work?”

  
“It’s too soon to say. Who knows how things will work out in the end?” She pinned her hair back, and both men could tell she wouldn’t be answering any more questions.

\--

Lydia Durrell couldn’t tell them anymore than she already had. She didn’t usually go in the library and the books belonged to her late husband, whose literary tastes were not the same as her own. “He liked thrillers and children’s books, but when I tried to share _The Alchemist_ with him, he refused to read it.”

Irene nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure he appreciated that you tried to live the truth of the books.”

Her voice sounded different; she was attempting an American accent. It was the one she used with her new clients because it made exhortations to live life to the fullest more convincing.

Lydia wasn’t listening. “Sometimes I think of my poor husband, my dear Andrew, sitting in that chair, stuffing his mouth with biscuits. How I hated it at the time…” She started to cry. Irene handed her a box of tissues and put her arm around her protectively. John wondered if this show of sympathy was as sincere as it appeared to be.

“That’s how I knew the books were wrong, Mr Holmes. No crumbs, no Hob Nob bits trapped between the pages,” Lydia said.

Lestrade had been waiting for a chance to correct the misunderstanding about his identity, but Irene shook her head at him. “Later.” Her words were almost inaudible.

“We’re going to talk to your brother now,” Lestrade said. “John, can you get him?”

Judging from the photographs displayed in the library, Gavin Durrell was the opposite of his brother in every way. It wasn’t that he didn’t look like the sort who would relax with a biscuit and a book, he didn’t look like the kind of person who could ever relax. His back was straight as he faced Lestrade and John, but his leg tapped a restless beat.

“I told Lydia not to make a fuss. They’re Sadie’s books, that’s my daughter, not that she reads, but we can sell them. School fees go higher every year.” The corners of his mouth lifted as if he were trying to indicate that he had made a joke.

“Why didn’t you want me to investigate? Why did you want to bring in the police?” Lestrade asked.

“Waste of your time, Mr Holmes. I thought an inspector from Scotland Yard could listen to Lydia, take a report, and that would be that. No need to encourage her fantasies, especially when the books she’s carrying on about aren’t hers.”

“So you do think they’re fantasies?” John asked. The tapping leg was getting to him and he could feel his own leg wanting to move.

“Losing Andrew like that, a sudden cardiac event, it was a shock to everyone.” His voice became slow and deliberate. “I don’t agree with Lydia’s plans to turn this house into a healing centre—I think she’ll give up on that idea as soon as that woman is out of the house. If you want to investigate someone, look into Irene Norton. She’s not who she says she is. I looked her up—no internet presence until a few years ago.”

“I’ll go do that,” Lestrade said. “Thanks for the tip.” His face was so careful and blank as he left that John knew they’d had the same thought.

John wondered what had happened to Irene’s old web site. Sherlock had kept a copy, complete with racy photographs, claiming it was research. “You do something with the internet don’t you?”

Gavin took this as an invitation to describe his work, which involved mobile phones and incorrectly using the words ‘disrupt’ and ‘paradigm’.

“Tell Irene to come in,” John said when Gavin paused for breath. “We’ll get to the bottom of her.”

“Good. I’ll be in the music room if you need anything,” Gavin said.

Irene came in quickly, but not quickly enough to raise suspicions of eavesdropping. Her effortless style had been spoiled by the crying Lydia had done on her shoulder. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I think you need a food taster,” John said. “Gavin Durrell doesn’t like you.”

“You think…”

“Cardiac event can mean anything,” John said.

Lestrade didn’t look happy when he returned. “It’s going to take some time to get people out here because of the weather. I’ve got them looking into his finances and they’re working on getting a warrant for his computer. Where did Mr Durrell go?”

“He’s in the music room,” John said. The faint sound of a distant piano floated into the library.

“Greg, I think you should leave the room, or at least go temporarily deaf for a moment. If Gavin is in the music room, then his laptop is probably in his bedroom. Lydia and I will keep him busy.”

“Not a bad idea,” Lestrade said. “If you know his password, that is.”

“People usually choose something important to them, don’t they?” Irene said.

“There’s no hurry. If we keep him in the music room, it’ll give time for the warrants. Where’s the music room?” John had told Lestrade about Irene’s difficulty with creating secure passwords and he doubted that someone with a background in computers would make the same mistake she had.

Wooden flooring, wood-panelled walls, the music room gave a feeling of being trapped in a box. Lydia was huddled on a faded chaise longue while her brother-in-law played the piano. He was singing as he played, but he was so focused on hitting the right keys that the lyrics were lost.

Lydia’s face brightened when she saw her visitors enter the room. “Irene is always telling me what a great composer and violinist you are. Did you know that Sherlock Holmes composes his own music?” she asked her brother-in-law.

“Yeah.” Gavin’s hands moved slowly over the keys, and Lestrade recognised the tune as ‘Yesterday’ even though the lyrics he was singing belonged to ‘Norwegian Wood’.

“We have a violin. Perhaps Mr Holmes will play for us,” Lydia suggested.

“He never plays while he’s working on a case,” John said.

“Irene says that playing music stimulates the production of neurons and increases the brain’s plasticity. Surely that must help when it comes to solving cases.” Lydia opened a storage bin where the more delicate instruments were kept.

“It’s part of my new lecture series,” Irene said.

“Won’t you play for us?” Lydia handed Lestrade a violin and settled back on to the chaise longue.

Lestrade’s musical ability was limited to crooning guitar ballads when on the pull. If Gavin had asked him to join in The Beatles medley, he would have done everyone proud, but the violin was a different matter. Sherlock had given him a lesson once. It was only once; a second attempt would have ended in either the violin or the player ‘falling’ out a window. He checked the tuning, then checked the tuning again. The choice in front of him was terrible: he could admit he was not Sherlock Holmes, he could fall down and break both his hands, or he could play.

He tucked the violin under his chin, then drew the bow across the strings with a dreadful screech that was supposed to be the beginning to ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’

“What the—”

Lydia shushed Gavin before he could finish. “It’s experimental,” she said. She leaned forward, intent on capturing every nuance of the performance.

Lestrade tried to calculate how much longer it would take for the police to arrive.

“Warming up,” he said and re-started ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. It was painful, like the cries of the damned as they are prodded into molten lava mixed with the mating songs of cats on a hot summer night. The sounds reverberated in the wooden box of a room, inescapable and remorseless. John covered his ears, but that offered no protection. Lestrade stared grimly at his audience.

“Stop, stop, stop!” Gavin shouted. “Stop looking at me like that! Stop those sounds!” He covered his face with his hands. “Just stop.”

“What’s wrong?” Lydia asked. “I thought it was quite thought-provoking.”

“Those books,” Gavin muttered. “My head. What was that noise?”

“What about the books?”

John tried to explain. “He’s the one who switched your husband’s books.”

“John, he needs to be the one to say it.” Lestrade finally took off Sherlock’s deerstalker. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes, and you need to know that you do not have to say anything, but what you do say may be used in evidence.”

He blamed the internet for his brother’s murder. The internet made it easy to lose more money than he’d ever thought possible and in the darker corners of the internet, you could buy anything you wanted. Anything, including poison.

“The poison was on the pages of the books. I had to switch them because Lydia was doing a complete inventory before giving out what was promised in the will,” Gavin said.

John moved over to the window. Police cars were arriving and Sherlock was with them. Irene joined him.

“There’s still time for you to run up and jump in the bath, if you want to give him a proper welcome,” John said.

Irene laughed. “It might be more fun to go down and tell him everything was solved without him.”

“It might be. How do you think he knew?”

“Sudden death plus innocent unrelated mystery, it must set off some kind of crime-alert in his head. It did bother me, but I didn’t think…”

“Sherlock would say that is the problem, people don’t think.”

“I’m going to go down and let him pretend he’s not surprised to see me.” Irene smiled mysteriously. “Buy the inspector a drink and say it’s from me.”

John promised her that he would even though he had strong feeling that it wouldn’t be long before they saw each other again.


End file.
